


Good Boy

by BlindSwandive



Series: Masquerade fills [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animal Play Puppy Sam Winchester, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Comeplay, Consensual Underage Sex, Dean is a Good Brother, Improvised Kink, M/M, More like NO BDSM Etiquette, Orgasm Delay, Praise Kink, Puppy Play, Sam Also Kind of Wants to Be a Dog, Sam Winchester Wants a Dog, Self-Denial, Then the Hormones Hit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23623729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: Sam has been longing for a canine companion, or even pretending he was a dog on and off, since he was little.  Dean is the only one who seems to get it.  So when Dean realizes it runs a little deeper, finds something raw inside of Sam, he can indulge that, too.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Masquerade fills [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1280822
Comments: 2
Kudos: 128
Collections: SPN_Masquerade Spring 2020





	Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> For the Spn-Masquerade prompt: "When Sam was a little boy, he loved to pretend he was a dog (hanging his head out the window of the Impala, curling up at the foot of his and Dean's bed in motels). Over the years, Dean gradually turned that innocent game into something more." This is kind of that, kind of not. 
> 
> This is in no way formal, dressed-up puppy play. This is messy and improvised, just like the rest of their lives.

"Ah-WOOOOO-arh! Arh!"

"Kid," Dad warned, "get your butt back on that seat this instant." Sam ignored him and kept yipping at the Setter in the car ahead, head out the window, knees on the back seat. Dean tried not to grin. 

Sam had been barking and wagging at every dog they'd passed on the highway for two states now. And not little eastern seaboard states; _prairie_ states. Dad's nerves were getting understandably frayed, but to Dean it was getting funnier every time.

Dad swore under his breath, knuckles going white on the steering wheel. 

Uh-oh. 

Dean patted his lap sharply and whistled. "Sammy!" he said, high and light, "Sammy, who's a good boy? Gonna come back inside? Come on, Sammy, good boy!"

It worked. In an instant, Sam was back inside the window, hanging over the seat, 'paws' on Dean's shoulders, panting, tongue out. His entire body was wiggling while he did his best impression of tail-wagging, minus the tail.

Dad's grip relaxed on the wheel; Dean's shoulders unwound, too.

"Goo'boy," Dean crooned, reaching behind with both hands to ruffle the shag of Sam's hair. "Who's a goo'boy? _You_ are, yes, _you_ are!"

"You two are so weird," Dad mumbled, and Sam fell laughing onto the bench seat.

* * *

"Please," Sam was begging for the thousandth time that winter. "Please can we get a dog, please?"

"No."

"Why _not_?" he whined.

"Because I said so," Dad snapped.

Dean buffered. "Come on, Sammy, dog wouldn't be happy living like this. Dogs need yards to run in, and most of the places we stay won't even allow 'em inside. You don't want a dog stuck sleeping in the car, do you?"

"Not so bad sleeping in the car," Sam sulked. "We do it sometimes."

"Yeah, but not while it's snowing out and the family's nice and warm inside the motel with some great chow mein," he tried, waggling his eyebrows.

Sam slumped across the back seat and kicked the door.

"Hey!" Dad snapped, and Sam scowled. He kicked it again, but more quietly. That night when they stopped to sleep, he wouldn't come inside.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean had coaxed, but Sam had rolled to face away. 

Dad had said, "Fine," slammed the door, and barked at Dean to help with the bags.

After midnight, when Dad had passed out and Dean couldn't sleep for worrying about Sam alone in the car, he got up, grabbed the keys as quietly as he could, threw on his coat, and snuck out through the snow.

"Hey, buddy," he whispered down to Sam when he opened the door.

Sam grumbled sleepily from the tight ball he'd made to keep warm.

"Come on, Sammy," he pleaded, rubbing his arms against the cold. "Come inside."

Sam growled and huffed, tucking his head in his arms. Dean sighed.

"Come on, boy," Dean tried gently, patting his lap. "If you're real quiet, manager won't even know you're in there, okay? Can sleep on the end of my bed, how's that sound?"

Sam's sulky puppy-dog eyes when he looked up about broke Dean's heart.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said, soft, and ruffled his hair. "How 'bout it?"

Sam got up on hands and knees and shook himself end to end, cautiously crawling around to butt his head against Dean's chest.

"There's a good boy," Dean sighed, relieved, and led him out. Sam crawled through the snow to the door, and slept on the end of the bed all night under Dean's coat.

* * *

Sam was fourteen when Dean found him tied to the radiator, just out of reach of a bowl of water and a bowl of dry cereal.

"Shit--Dean--" 

Dad was gone for the week, and Dean had planned to go cruise the strip mall where the girls were hanging out for the day, but it had been a bust and he'd given up. He'd come back only a half-hour later, and there was Sam, naked on the floor, sprawled and lean and hungry looking, a coil of rope knotted around his neck tethering him to the radiator. He was scrambling now to undo the knots, but his fingers were shaking in his panic.

Dean shut the door behind him fast and raised a hand, soothing. "Shh, shh, s'okay, boy."

A voice in the back of Dean's head asked him what the hell he was doing, said, 'You're too old for this,' said, 'This isn't little kid shit anymore,' said 'He's a freak and so are you,' but the voice that came out of his mouth said, "Good boy, good boy... Not gonna' hurt you... You're okay..." and Sam went still and slack-jawed.

Something inside of Dean went still, too.

"Shh..."

Sam backed up toward the radiator, on hands and knees, shoulders arched and wary, head hanging low. Dean took a step closer and he growled.

"Easy, boy... Friend..."

Dean tossed his coat on the bed and eased closer, hand out and empty, crept closer to Sam's tense body, palm up, until he was close enough to offer it up under Sam's nose.

Sam's eyes shot up, scared, rolling, wild, but Dean made his face soft, calm, his body language loose, and Sam tucked the point of his nose into Dean's hand shyly.

"Good boy," Dean murmured soft, encouraging. "Good boy. See? Friend..."

Sam hesitated a moment, gave another uncertain look up, but when Dean nodded, he leaned his head hard into Dean's palm, eager, bristling and shivering with excitement.

"Good boy," Dean repeated, soothingly, digging his fingers into Sam's hair deep, crouching down to one knee beside him.

"Who tied you up like this, huh? Bet you're a good boy, bet you could be loose in the apartment, huh?"

Sam whined, and the sound made something in Dean's chest ache.

"Shh... Here we go..." Dean reached to unknot the end of the rope from the radiator. Something told him to leave the loop around Sam's neck; dog needed a collar, after all. And a leash. "Bet you're thirsty, huh..."

At the suggestion, Sam surged toward the water, drinking face first from the bowl, and Dean made soft encouraging sounds, running a hand over his head, then shyer down his back. Sam's smooth skin broke out in goosebumps.

"Hungry?" Dean asked, but something got tight and strange inside him and he hoped the answer was no. Sam shook his head to knock drops of water from his chin, but ignored the bowl of cereal. He shouldered closer to Dean instead, and Dean felt his dick start to fatten in his jeans. This close, in the summer heat, he could smell Sam, smell skin and sweat and hair and warm, and he didn't mean to look, he didn't, but he saw Sam's dick was filling too, still hanging low between his legs but longer, heavier, and fuck but that made Dean's breath catch in his throat.

Hands shaking, Dean gathered the rope up and slowly stood, stood so close that the tent in his jeans was almost brushing against Sam's cheekbone, and he heard Sam groan faintly. 

Mouth dry, Dean had to clear his throat to manage, "Walk," and feeling half-mad but half-burning he stepped away and gave the rope a short jerk. Sam stumbled but caught himself, crawling fast to keep up. He was panting, open-mouthed, tongue pink and wet. Dean wondered if he'd drool like a dog, too, lick like a dog, wrestle like a dog...

Dean led Sam on a slow walk around their tiny apartment, skin feeling like it was getting tighter on his body with every step, buzzing. Now and then he'd snap, "Heel," or give a tug, even though Sammy was obeying, was staying close, heaving ribs against Dean's leg every step, just because it made them both shudder a breath when he did.

When he got back to the little kitchenette, he barked, "Stay," and Sam froze, rooted to the spot. Dean backed up to the length of the leash to get a look at him.

Sam was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, hair sticking to the back of his neck, and the muscles in his arms and legs were taut. His dick was angry red and hard, now, bobbing up toward his belly, leaving a thin shining thread of precum between the tip and his stomach when it touched.

"Fuck," Dean whispered and leaned back against the counter to catch his breath. His own dick was aching in his jeans, trapped, and barely realizing he was doing it, he unzipped and slid his hand in, gripping hard.

Sam whined, rocking side to side and swiveling his hips around haphazardly, fingers curling hard against the floor. 

"Stay," Dean reminded him, low, just to see him shiver, and Sam obeyed, even though it looked like it hurt.

"Good boy," he graveled, and Sam's dick bobbed again, leaving another shiny smear on his belly. He was panting loudly now, the tip of his tongue slipping over his bottom lip, wetting it, reaching for nothing.

Maybe not for nothing.

Dean hitched his underwear down under his balls, pulling his dick out into view, and Sam whined eagerly, whole body straining to stay and move at once.

"Want to be a good boy?" Dean asked, thin, and Sam wagged. Sam begged with his eyes and his mouth and his shoulders.

"C'mere," he said finally, and Sam was on him in a flash, 'paws' on Dean's hips, tongue eagerly lapping at Dean's dick, his balls, his fingers when they got in the way, haphazard and hungry.

Dean's knees went weak and he was glad he was already leaning against the counter.

Sam wasn't trying to get away, seemed to have no interest in anything but getting closer, licking and nudging with his nose, pawing aimlessly at Dean's jeans, but Dean coiled the rope around his fist anyway, drawing it up until the length between his hand and Sam's neck was short and taut. He gave it the tiniest tug and Sam startled, jerking back against it for a moment, then looked up at Dean, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"Hungry?" Dean asked again, feverish, and Sam nodded dimly, caught himself and pawed eagerly instead, and Dean whispered, "Go 'head." Sam tried to swallow him in one go.

He choked instead, tried to maneuver flat palmed (dogs don't have fingers), and Dean slid down a little lower to give him a better chance. And if that pressed one shin out and up between Sam's legs, snug up under his leaking dick, made Sam gasp and whine, pained, well. That was all right.

Sam ground himself against Dean's leg, crushing his dick between it and his belly, and artlessly sucked and mouthed and licked at Dean's cock, groans and whines buzzing through it. It wasn't good or clever, not even by high school girl standards, but that made it better somehow, the hungry desperation of it, and too soon Dean came messily, in Sam's mouth, on his cheek, in his hair, cum oozing down his own skin. Sam licked like it was manna, licked Dean's belly and dick and balls 'til he was oversensitive and had to push him off.

When the leash went slack, Sam slumped back but squirmed, dick red and raw from the denim, hips twitching aimlessly.

Dean made him wait, saying, "Stay," just a little harshly, while he caught his breath and tried to figure out what to do.

Sam looked like he was in agony and ecstasy both, writhing in place.

Dean glanced aimlessly around the kitchen, then lit on the oil by the stove. "Roll over," he said, and Sam practically threw himself onto his back, twisting and arching, and Dean thought his dick might be a little too interested in that, even just having spent. But good boys deserved rewards.

Slicking one palm with oil, Dean knelt down beside Sam's wriggling body, said, "Stay," and Sam groaned but held himself still, trembling with the tension. "Good boy," Dean mumbled, and watching Sam's face as he did, he wrapped his hand around Sam's dick. Sam's eyes shot wide, then clamped shut, and he gripped helplessly at the floor, trying to be still.

Dean looked at Sam's pink mouth hanging open, his damp skin, his heaving chest, the crude knot of rope around his neck, and slid the circle of his hand slowly, meanly slowly, down Sam's length, just to make him twitch, to make him beg. Sam panted sharp and pained but stayed, and Dean did it again, and again, and again until Sam was whimpering, a high whine in his throat, eyes clenched and wet, cock weeping precum. "Good boy," Dean said, low, so low in his throat, dick fattening again. "Bein' a real good boy, Sammy..." he praised, and Sam trembled with the tension of it.

Dean squeezed his own cock with his free hand and hissed, cursed. Shifting on his knees, he swiped his free palm through the wet of oil and sweat and precum on Sam's belly and wrapped it loosely around his dick again, squirming until he could get the head lying on Sam's open mouth, fat on his tongue. "Keep bein' a good boy for me," he said, tightening his grip on them both, "and I'll let you hump, deal?"

Sam moaned gratitude, and wriggled his ass against the floor in a haphazard wag, saying yes with his tongue in eager swipes over the head of Dean's dick.

"Good boy," Dean growled, pushing the head into Sam's mouth and jacking lazily, "good boy."

Dean made him hold almost a minute longer, hold right until he thought Sam might actually cry, then breathed, "All right, go to it." And he watched dazed and hungry as Sam jutted his hips up eagerly into Dean's grip, shuddering and twitching. 

It was desperate and fast, and Sam came howling in Dean's fist. It was almost enough, almost, and inspired, Dean brought his cum-covered fingers up to Sam's mouth, slipping them inside along with his cock, stuffing Sam's mouth overfull, smearing it with Sam's own cum. Sam shuddered, opening his eyes, uncertain, but Dean just growled a reminder to be a good boy and Sam obeyed, his eyes rolling up into his head. He lolled his tongue wildly, sucked at Dean's fingers and the head of his cock while Dean pumped his fist and got Sam's face messy and wet, and when Dean came it felt harder, somehow, better. He stuffed a little more of his cock into Sam's mouth so everything would spill inside, ordered, "Swallow," and Sam choked but did, working his tongue and his throat obediently, licking slower and gentler until Dean was finally empty and soft between his lips.

Dean slumped back until he was sitting on the floor, panting, dazed. When his eyes closed, he found he was too scared to open them again, too certain he'd see some kind of horrified look on Sam's face, too sure that some spell would break and they'd be destroyed, burned up like kindling. But then there was a nudging at his hand, still slick with oil and sticky with cum, and Sam's tongue was working warm and soft and reverent over his skin, licking up everything they'd both left behind. It was mellow and loving, tender as a dog, and Dean managed to open his eyes, look down at Sam in awe.

Sam was on his hands and knees, promising with his tongue, with his loose shoulders, that he was still and satiated inside, calmer than he'd been in weeks. Dean shook his head.

Maybe their dad was right; they were pretty weird.

But something went quiet and still inside of Dean, too, and he reached out, pulled until Sam tumbled sidelong across his lap, rubbed his belly slow. "Good boy, Sammy," he said, soft, calm. "Good boy."


End file.
